


Pattern Recognition

by Orokiah



Category: Engelsforstrilogin | The Engelsfors Trilogy - Mats Strandberg & Sara Bergmark Elfgren
Genre: Dreams, F/F, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:06:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orokiah/pseuds/Orokiah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanessa can see the signs, but that doesn't mean she's ready to read them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pattern Recognition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tofsla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/gifts).



> Since _Fire_ won't be available in English until summer 2013, this complies with _The Circle_ only.

The _Book of Patterns_ is a world class bitch. Worse than that, it's a tease. It gives Vanessa a headache, staring for hours at the pages and gaining nothing from them but crossed eyes, and a sense of something beyond her grasp. Something she ought to know, and somewhere inside, feels sure she does—if she can only coax words to express it.

There's no way she's giving up. Ida is best friends with the damn thing, and it told Linnéa about protective magic. There must be something it wants to say to Vanessa. She's determined to make it talk. Even if she has to spend the entire fucking summer indoors, hunched over it; staying out of sight so long that everyone forgets she exists.

The nursery got flooded, and she's on babysitting duty while they fix the pipes. Spending time with Melvin is never a chore, even if he chooses to spend it banging plastic blocks together, as if they were drums. Toy blocks seem both too old for a two-year-old, and also too young. Vanessa is pretty sure Melvin is beyond the primary-coloured object stage. That doesn't mean he's a prodigy, who can read the letters etched in the sides, and sort them into words. Nicke might think his son is a genius, but Vanessa knows better. He's just an ordinary little boy, perfect as he is. There are no super powers required, to make him special.

But everyone likes to feel _super_ special sometimes. Maybe even this grumpy old hag of a book.

“Okay,” she says, voice sultry and inviting. It's the one she uses on Wille, when she wants her own special something and he's not playing ball. “So you don't like it when I shake you, or threaten you. Fair enough. What if I polish you or something? Make you nice and shiny?”

She picks up the Pattern Finder, feeling hopeful. But there's still only page after page of indecipherable symbols, swimming in front of her.

“Maybe I should get on my knees and _apologise_ , then,” she says, temper flaring. “Beg you for forgiveness...”

Spending so long squinting through a loupe has made her eyes water. She blinks to clear them. And then, like magic—well, why the hell not? That's precisely what it is—it happens. The symbols stay the same on the page. They move not an inch, in reality. But in her mind's eye they shimmer, and start to shift. The lines reform, into something that isn't letters, isn't text at all—but still, somehow, borders on sense. She teeters on the brink for one long, delicious moment, and then, too impatient to wait, draws book and Finder closer together, trying to force it.

The lines flip back into place, as if in a puff of smoke. She clutches desperately at the meaning, falling like sand through her fingers. The only thing left is an afterimage: a vague sort of impression that drifts past her in a whisper. All she can parse from it is this:

 _Pay attention_.

She knows from Ida's fumbling attempts that the book is even harder to articulate, than it is to read. But this is no use at all. Either she got the defective copy, or she needs to clear her mind more thoroughly, next time she tries: meditate, or chant, or pollute the air with joss sticks. Or maybe the book really is just a total bitch that lives for torment. It was sitting on her knee while she texted Linnéa, not five minutes before. Yeah, that's it—it wants her full attention. It's stamping its foot like a child, making it clear who's boss.

Vanessa makes her own thoughts quite clear, by kicking it across the room. Frasse whimpers, like his bladder's given way. Melvin stops thumping his blocks, watching with wide eyes. Vanessa thinks better of violence. She retrieves the book, and dusts it off with a guilty pat.

At least they know how they feel about each other, now. There's much less room for confusion, when you know exactly where you stand.

  


  


It's not just the book, that Vanessa is reading things into. Ever since the principal told them time is a circle, too, she's been wondering about her dreams. Wondering whether they're really dreams at all—or if they're glimpses of things that haven't happened yet.

She can no more tell a fortune than comprehend the _Book of Patterns._ She's not a metal witch, like Ida. And she's far as it's possible to be from Mona fucking Moonbeam. But she still channelled the past, just like the others. She woke up with the same, acrid stench of smoke in her nostrils, clinging to her hair like a shroud. That dream might have gone away, since they defeated Max, but others have replaced it.

Flying is exhilarating. Falling from the sky, tumbling and spiralling through the clouds: it's like nothing else. The closest she's ever come to it is sex. It's wild abandon, overpowering sensation: both of them and more, all at once. She dreams about it almost every night, lately. And it's so vivid, even when she wakes. The principal never did give a straight answer, when Vanessa asked if she could learn to fly. _It depends on how your powers develop_ , she'd said. That, in Vanessa's book, was a _yes_.

Which makes the dreams either the best fantasy ever—or a taste of the future.

Her mother says flying is a common recurring dream, along with being naked, and your teeth falling out. She produces a book, one she bought at the Crystal Cave, to prove it.

“Dreams tell us the things our conscious minds can't,” she says, a line she's obviously read a few times, and managed to memorise.

She suggests Vanessa keep a dream journal, like she does. Mona has some pretty sun and moon patterned notebooks in stock. They'd be perfect.

“Sounds great,” Vanessa says, biting back the first response that springs to mind. She's back at home now, and that involves compromise: like not telling Nicke to go fuck himself, and being nice to her mother, especially when she's trying to be helpful. She registers, somewhere inside, how pleased her mother is that they've found a common interest, and how keen she is to share it. It's kind of pathetic to witness. It makes her squirm, and wish she'd never mentioned it. Mostly though, it makes her feel sad.

Of course, her mother has no idea that dreams can be anything other than your own, fevered imaginings. And she has no idea about the _other_ types of dreams that Vanessa has started to have. Dreams she will never, in a million, zillion years, commit to paper: and in no circumstances, _ever_ , intends to share.

  


  


Here's the thing about dreams: they rarely make sense, in the cold light of day. They're often too bizarre for Vanessa to interpret, especially with her mother's dictionary as a guide.

And they play havoc with perspective. Sometimes Vanessa is in her own body, playing one of the many Vanessas in existence, depending on who she's with, and where she is. Other times she's merely observing, admiring the way dream-Vanessa's legs look in her hot pants, or thinking she needs her roots done. Or wondering where her engagement ring got to this time; why it never seems to fit in her head, as neatly as it does on her finger.

She's sitting on Linnéa's sofa, fingers curling around the fake velvet throw. Her feet are warm against Linnéa's leg, head filled with a pleasant, easy sort of buzz—

They're standing at the edge of Dammsjön Lake, the water still as sheet metal. She's frozen solid in her too-thin jacket, even if she'd never admit it. Linnéa steps closer, boots crunching on frost, covering some of the chill—

She's back in Linnéa's apartment, staring at her Alice-on-acid wardrobe. She selects a white top, then the next obvious match, a fluffy, knitted black sweater—

 _This is the past_ , Vanessa realises, familiarity breaking the spell. It's nothing but a memory: one that belongs to the twenty-first century instead of the seventeenth. But when she opens her mouth, intending to say it out loud, something totally different emerges.

“Who should I dress up as?” she asks.

She's not sure where _that_ came from. Well of course she isn't: that's what happens, when she's anywhere near Linnéa.

“Choose something that suits,” Linnéa says, appearing out of nowhere. She looks over at Vanessa, smile cold steel, and her eyes oozing pity. “It's the middle of the night. Who else is going to see you?”

“Huh,” Vanessa says. When she's no longer struck dumb, she demands, “What the _fuck_ are you—”

And then she stops short, strangely distracted. Linnéa is standing there, staring at her, eyes moving up and down. Vanessa follows her gaze, and discovers she's wearing an ivory dress: one that stretches all the way to her ankles, and shows much less skin than she'd like.

This is _her_ dream, damn it. She's the one in control here. She asserts it by grabbing the black skirt, the last piece of the puzzle slotting into place, the way she remembers. But when she touches it, the skirt warps in her hands. It turns into a bunch of gerberas, black blossoming into pink.

“They're beautiful,” she hears herself say. She leans over to tighten Linnéa's tie—when the hell did she start wearing _that_?—and adds, in her sultriest, most inviting voice, “And so are—”

  


  


Vanessa comes awake with a jolt, tangled and lost in her duvet. Her body is tingling, blood rushing in her ears. They're ringing, like there's an alarm clock jammed in her brain. She gropes about for the reason, mind fuzzy and confused. She's coming down with something, she decides. Nicke probably brings all kinds of germs home with him. _He_ definitely never brings flowers.

It finally dawns on her that the ringing is her mobile. Wille's name flashes up on the screen, as she rolls over to get it.

She checks her ring is firmly in place, before she answers.

  


  


She dreamed about Elias, once. They were in the school playground, and he was watching her, from a distance. The invisible girl, who used to be impossible not to spot. The dead boy, some equally dead trees as his backdrop.

(Engelsfors does that. It stifles life, and hope, and slowly strangles your dreams.)

Vanessa tries to interpret that dream, the way her mother would. She strips out the symbols, and takes a stab at their meaning. Eyes. Trees. Wood. Elias, she remembers, was a wood witch. Max used his power, and made himself look like Gustaf. She wonders how Elias would have used it. What might he have become, if he'd only been given the chance?

Elias never comes back. She wants to think it's a sign: that he's finally at peace—or, maybe, that she is.

But the other dreams go on. And deep down inside, she knows very well that she's not.

  


  


Here's another thing about dreams: time moves differently there, than it does in reality. Inside her head, Vanessa can zip from moment to moment, from place to place, in the space of a breath. She's not sure she'll ever be able to teleport when she's conscious; whether that potential even lies with her element. The principal might know, but she's on her summer break, the same way the Chosen Ones are. Minoo could make an educated guess, and she'd probably get it right. But Vanessa is too afraid, after Max, to ask her.

She's flying high above the town, floating on air as she leaves it far behind. It's impossible to believe she's tied to it; it looks nothing like a great magical battery. It looks like it does on Google Earth: small and still, and so fucking _grey_ —

They're standing on the shore, in the eye of a storm. Energy ripples through her as Linnéa takes her hand. Rain lashes down, thunder roaring, and it's the two of them _,_ water and air, making it happen—

She's looking down again, watching stick figures wade through slush in Storvall Park. She takes a steadying breath, and stretches out a foot—

And then she's falling. Backwards, with her head on fire, into Linnéa's waiting arms. Linnéa, who has just yanked at her hair, and fucking _dragged_ her off the ledge.

“Are you fucking _insane_?” Linnéa screeches, while she yowls in pain and rubs at her scalp. “Have you got any _idea_ how _—”_

“I have to know if I can do it,” Vanessa says.

Linnéa grabs her by the elbow and marches her away from the window, to the safety of the sofa. The ceramic panther looks on in disapproval.

“Here,” she says. “You do it from here. You start with something small, and then you _work your way up_.”

“You pulled half my hair out,” Vanessa complains, looking around for a mirror, hidden among the pictures.

“I'd rather you have a bald patch than die like Rebecka.” Linnéa's voice is shaking; her ribcage heaves, as if she's struggling for air. Her fingers make circling motions on Vanessa's bare arm. It feels nice. Soothing. Almost like she's come home.

“You're still not ready,” Linnéa says.

“No,” Vanessa agrees, a little sadly. “I don't think I am.”

  


  


Mona Moonbeam had said no real witch would be interested in a dream catcher. It doesn't stop her helping Vanessa's mother pick one out as a present. She comes home from the Crystal Cave with a bag full of crap: the dream catcher, the journal (pink with black skulls; suns and moons were sold out), and a dictionary of Vanessa's very own.

Vanessa summons a smile and makes appropriate noises, while Nicke mutters darkly about wasting money, the irony of the bathroom fuck-up passing him by. He's such a fucking _hypocrite_. Vanessa widens her smile, just to piss him off.

She goes to her room and flicks through the dictionary. Flying, apparently, means she wants to be free, and needs to escape.

Maybe there's something to this analysis thing, after all. She folds over the corner of the page, and places the book in a drawer, next to the ever-surly _Book of Patterns_. At least one of them wants to be straight with her. The journal goes in her book bag, ready for school to start up again. The dream catcher she hangs on the wall, above the pillow end of her bed.

She sits for a while and watches the feathers, wafting gently in the breeze. Waiting to see what they snare.

  


  


The panther has a lot of opinions, for an inanimate object. It's grateful to Linnéa for rescuing it, but jealous of the other stuff she brings home. It worries it's not as cool as it looks. It thinks the apartment needs a fresh coat of paint (it would like one too, to cover up its cracks). And it's deeply concerned about pollution, from the old steelworks: what it's done to the air, and also to the water.

Vanessa perches on the arm of the sofa, and pats its head. It purrs, a hum of approval that echoes around the room.

“It's nice to have someone to talk to,” the panther says, sighing. “Most people don't even notice I'm here.”

“Linnéa notices you, doesn't she?”

“Linnéa needs me. She gets lonely: living in this place, all alone.”

“Okay,” Vanessa says, “so it's a shithole. A _high-rise_ shithole. But she's turned it into a home. And at least she doesn't have to share it. Especially with a loser like Nicke.”

“She gets lonely,” the panther repeats. “And she misses Elias.”

“We all miss Elias,” Vanessa says. “He was one of us... We just didn't know it yet.”

“Maybe you did know,” the panther says. “But you didn't want to admit it.”

Vanessa's fingers are tracing a spidery white vein, bisecting its ears. She stills her hand, and peers down.

“Why the fuck am I holding a conversation with a passive-aggressive piece of ceramic?”

“ _Well_ ,” the panther says, sounding huffy and offended. “What would you rather be doing?”

 _Flying_ , Vanessa thinks to herself. And for a split second, she is: soaring high above Engelsfors, stretching for the sun. Thailand is out there, and Ibiza. It's a whole other world. A universe of possibilities, opening up its arms—

Linnéa's apartment glows red in the night. It's like you're walking on Mars, or into someone's heart. The slow beat of music pulsates through Vanessa's feet as she tiptoes around the bed, past the sewing machine; guided by instinct to the living room.

Two bodies are writhing on the sofa, in a world of their own. This is the past. Definitely the past. Vanessa remembers this moment, in much more detail than she'd like. There are still times she looks at Linnéa and sees skin, instead of self-made clothes; Jonte's hands, greedy and eager, snaking their way to her breasts. She hovers in silence, waiting for Linnéa to lift her head, and see right through her.

_Had enough yet?_

As she stands there, flanked by pink lampshades, details start to niggle. The wooden chest is gone. An actual coffee table has replaced it: a circular slab of glass, with silver poles for legs. The posters on the walls look different, the names of the bands seeming somehow familiar. There's a pale blue bow, stuck to the panther's neck. Linnéa's fringe looks shorter. And she's wearing different coloured pants: vibrant green, dotted by birds.

Vanessa finally takes the book's advice. She pays attention, to all of it. Things slide into place: coalescing into a picture so clear, she wonders how she could ever not have seen it.

It's not Jonte on the sofa, kissing Linnéa. It's the person she sees in the mirror, when she's checking how she looks. Making sure she's there. That's _her_ hair, tangling with Linnéa's. That's _her_ back, being mapped in code by Linnéa's painted nails. And that's _her_ hand, slipping inside Linnéa's pants and making her smile, and arch, and gasp—

“I'd be just as happy in pink,” says the panther.

  


  


Vanessa bolts upright, sucking in air like she's drowning. Something is banging nearby. For a moment she thinks it's Melvin; that she's dozed off on the sofa while she's meant to be taking care of him. But it's just her blind, fluttering against the glass.

Her heart is pounding in her chest. Heat pools slick inside her, making her ache. She gets up to close the window, finding relief in the chill.

The dream dissolves into starlight: leaving nothing behind it but questions.

  


  


The nursery re-opens tomorrow, all fixed and dried out. Amira announced the news in a cheery phone call. It's good news for Vanessa's fading tan, not to mention Michelle and Evelina: they're getting tired of her giving them the brush-off, in favour of hanging with her baby brother, and second-guessing her subconscious. Wille has been nothing but sweet and understanding. They've spent too much time apart, lately.

Vanessa misses him. And, quite clearly, badly needs to get laid.

She settles herself down on the sofa, phone on one side, _Book of Patterns_ on the other. Frasse is in the corner, asleep on his back; twitching his way through some imagined adventure. Melvin is playing on the floor, building something from his blocks that might be a fort, or is maybe just a wall. It's a scene part of her finds hopelessly dull and domestic, renewing her yearning for more. Another part is content to enjoy the peace, and the certainty it brings.

Vanessa appreciates certainty, right now. She's beyond tired of cryptic: Mona Moonbeam, with her disgusting teeth, and smug predictions; the book that's supposed to guide her, but feels like it's going to snap shut and bite her hand off, every time she goes near it. The principal had said nothing about its mood swings. She'd been too busy singing its praises, spewing Council-approved bullshit.

 _No two witches see the same thing... It's useless if your senses aren't focused on the search... Once you've seen something in the_ Book of Patterns _, you'll be able to find it again..._

_(It can see right into our souls...)_

Vanessa takes a deep breath, and switches off her phone. It feels a bit like she's severed a limb. She pushes it out of her mind, along with everything else. She sets the book on her knee, and puts the Pattern Finder to her eye. She flips back and forth through the pages, concentrating hard enough to make her eyes bleed. For a while, there's nothing. But then, sure enough, comes a flicker—

 _Pay attention_ , the book tells her. Exactly the same as it did before. Vanessa punches the air, sure her magical reading ability is fast catching up to Ida's.

An hour and a half later, she resigns herself to the fact it's not. The book has nothing more to tell her; nothing else to say for itself. The only thing it transmits is silence.

“Bitch,” Vanessa says. She strokes the pages, ring scraping across them, feeling a grudging fondness for the grumpy old thing. The symbols scowl up at her, unpersuaded.

There's no way she's giving up on it, even if it takes her all summer. Dream interpretation is another matter. Her mother will be disappointed, when Vanessa announces that she's bored of reading too much into them. She'll call her fickle and ungrateful, while Nicke nods his head in the background. Vanessa will acquire an interest in one of her other hobbies, to make up for it. Astrology seems safest: she's not sure she wants to know the colour of her aura, and what _that_ might mean, let alone have it photographed.

It hasn't been a total waste of her time. There are certain patterns, in dreams and reality, that she's learned to recognise, and is slowly coming to terms with. The way that Linnéa is a constant, recurring feature, whether she's asleep or awake. The way that she can always feel her energy; an invisible tether that draws them together, wherever they are, and whatever they're doing.

Vanessa can see the signs, now. But that doesn't mean she's ready to read them.

The future, and all it might hold, is going to have to wait.

“Pay attention, Melvin,” she says, dropping to her knees and shuffling over to join him. “Nessa's going to show you how to spell.”

  



End file.
